Perfection
by Angelic Thrall
Summary: Curt reflects on Brian and just what the words Perfect and Perfection truly mean.


**Perfection**  
  
_Perfect_- adj. Complete in all respects; flawless.  
  
_Perfection_- n. A person or thing that is the perfect embodiment of some quality.  
  
Perfect. Perfection. Brian Slade. Maxwell Demon. People say there's a difference between to two, because perfection does not require a perfect person. Because a stage costume was made with perfection, does not mean the actual designer is perfect. But Brian was perfect, and Maxwell Demon, was perfection. Two of the same. Mirror images that flicker between my eyelids at night, no matter who it is my arms may be wrapped around. I can smell of someone, of a random groupie, of a heroin addict, of an alcoholic, and I still I'll think of perfection. Of blue hair and glitter covered eyelids, and cruelly smirking and sneering lips, dark hazel eyes that turned much too distant sometime. Perfect. Perfection. Both the same, both alike. Brian Slade. Maxwell Demon. They were never two people.  
  
The warmth from the bed has faded, and the sheets still smell of us. Of sex, of heat and passion, of cigarettes and alcohol, and a love so deep it could chill ones soul. And I'm sure it has. I can hear the shower, and I'd bury my head into my pillow to block the sound, if it didn't smell like him so much. I can't...can't get him out of my head. I don't want his scent on me, I don't want to taste him when I lick my lips, or see him when I close my eyes. Obsessions only lead to pain. Love only leads to pain. And Brian Slade can never offer up more then his own reflection.  
  
I run a hand through my hair, push back blonde strands and sit up, too awake to sleep, too tired to leave. Leave...it would be easy. It would have been easy before. But the thought of leaving this room, however cluttered, however cold it maybe, sickens me. Berlin streets are freezing, and the rain is coming down lightly, matching that of the shower from this hotel. Besides, I know as well as he does that by two hours, the sheets and bed will be warm once more.  
  
I've never needed anyone. Curt Wild doesn't need a thing, only a pack of cigarettes. It feels like I need this creature though, this devil with blue hair and surprisingly cold, careless eyes. He's such a child. His immature astounds me, his vanity, his stubbornness, his selfishness. But he loves me, and maybe that's why I stay. Because I've never been loved, not like this, not to where it hurts so much. He tells me he loves me, but I've heard it before. From countless fans, from countless mouths. All screaming, all pleading, all assuring their love of me. My fans don't know me. Bri doesn't know me, not really. So loving him is like loving a groupie. I've done it before, and it's not as fun as everyone seems to think it is.  
  
I find myself wondering, as the room rills with the smell of nicotine and smoke (I never leave my cigarettes too far from me) and I can't help but think of him, as the water stops, and all that's left is the soft pound of water on the roof. Pursed lips, and I'm smiling, shaking my head as I do it, sliding from the bed and slithering into leather pants I've left on the ground. He chides me for it, but I don't care. We'll be leaving this hotel soon anyway.  
  
I can feel him enter the room, even with my back turned to the door, my figure leaning against the window, the coldness of it sending a slight tremor down my back. The cigarette still burns from my lips, dangling there, filling the room with its disgusting smell. But it's soothing. From the bedside mirror I can see his face, slightly twisted now, and he shoots me a quick, dark glance for smoking in the room, and then his eyelashes brush down on his cheeks.  
  
It's not like me to comply to people, especially without them even asking, but I'm already grinding out the paper cylinder, turning halfway, arms crossed across my chest, studying him as if I'd never seen him. Already dressed, open white shirt, daringly plain for such a singer, and silver leather pants that cling in all the right places. It's no wonder all the girls, and guys, want him so badly. I can see their jealousy in their eyes when I drape an arm across him, when it's me kissing his neck or throwing half insults half jokes to the reporters. Do they want him so badly? They don't even know him...not like I do.  
  
He raises an eyebrow at me, smirking slightly as he brushes across the room, silence. Always silence during the mornings, when I'm too dazed, too drunk sometimes even to bother with talk. No words can really be exchanged between us, unless we're arguing. It's always been actions, been touches, burning flesh on hot skin, lips on lips, letting our bodies explore eachother instead of our minds. But I know him anyway, I can read him as well as he can read me. And he knows I'm doubting something, doubting us, questioning him. And he's mad, because Bri is always angry at things he doesn't understand, or doesn't want to bother with.  
  
A thorn in his side.  
  
"You're not going to the interview like that." He motions to me, and I smirk, threatened to just nod my head, but I shrug. My image was never as important to me, but I'm already pulling on a fresh shirt, smoothing my hair down with my fingers.  
  
To his disgust, I light another cigarette. A habit he is just starting to pick up, how hypocritical of him. And his eyes flash again, half annoyance, half anger, and still through it all, I have to admire how perfect he is. The gleam in his eyes, perfection marred, the way his painted mouth curves into a sneer. Laughing, I drag on the cigarette, exhaling a wave of gray smoke, and he smiles one of his rare, true smiles, which I'm blessed to see.  
  
Perfection, however tainted, however selfish, however stubborn, stupid, childish. Brian really is perfection, the ideal being. Perfect in every way, in every manner. And in his perfection, I grin, because maybe some of that is rubbing off on me, and maybe I'll be able to call myself perfect beside him. Someday, when the rain stops, and the cigarettes have all run out, and there isn't angry glances or smoke filled rooms. Just perfection, painted lips, glitter eyes and leather pants, heavy voices, dark music, and the cheering of crowds, all pushed to the middle of a blue haired God. Perfection.  
  



End file.
